Arya Targaryen (107 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing – Tourney Grounds.
This tourney had been a whole lot bigger and more finely dressed than the one she attended with her father and Sansa. The banners alone were enough to make a man dizzy, bright silks of every color snapping in the wind, lions, towers, roses, suns, and dragons all dancing above the crowd. The scent of trampled grass, horse sweat, and roasted meats filled the air, mixing with perfumes from highborn ladies. It was loud, alive, almost overwhelming.
She remembered the other tourney only faintly, like looking through a fogged window. The fight between the Hound and the Mountain stood clearest in her mind. Steel crashing, fire in Sandor's eyes, the way the crowd had gone silent for a heartbeat before roaring again. Sandor, the man who said to everyone he didn't care about anything, yet he did. She had traveled with him long enough to know that truth. There had been something buried beneath the anger, something human.
Sandor dying in the flames, after he had pulled his brother with him, still lingered in her thoughts. The heat, the smell, the sound of it. Just before the Mountain's blade had nearly caught her. She could still remember the weight of that moment, how close it had all come to ending.
After that, she had gone to Cersei. Even now, thinking of it felt strange. Yet seeing Cersei fallen that low, the Red Keep broken, her army gone, her power stripped away, she had seen not a queen, but a mother, and a frightened one at that. She had let her go. Or more or less, she had let the innocent child inside her go. Just as innocent as Mycah had been. Just as she herself had once been, before they had cut off her father's head.
She had let it all go then. The anger. The pain. The need for vengeance that had driven her for so long. It had not vanished all at once, but it had loosened its grip. Even if it had been Aemon, and a vision of her father, that had truly pulled her back from the edge.
Here she was now, dressed in a fine dress that felt too tight at the shoulders and too light for comfort, sitting alongside her sister and the princess. The silk brushed against her skin in a way she would never grow used to. Even now, part of her wished she could be below, in the dust and noise, helping Jon prepare, as Laenor and Bennard were doing.
She shifted slightly in her seat and looked toward the entry point of the tourney grounds. There stood Ser Harrold, tall and steady as ever, watching over the proceedings like a silent sentinel. Did he have squires at the moment? As she knew, Laenor and Aemon had both served him. Yet Aemon would soon be knighted, she was certain of it. The way he spoke of this tourney, the quiet certainty in his voice, it would be here. Today.
A small thought began to take shape in her mind, one that had come before but now returned stronger.
Perhaps if she asked Ser Harrold, and her mother, she might be allowed to become his squire. The idea made something stir inside her chest, something sharp and eager. And perhaps, one day, she could become a knight. The first woman to do so in Westerosi history.
Why not?
It wasn't as if she believed in the Seven. Even then, they weren't true gods, one of the few tricks played by the Great Other on the world of men to forget the old truths of the Long Night. Still, she saw the values and oaths knights were supposed to uphold, even if many of them didn't, and if modified, she saw a way to fit them into the Valyrian and Old Gods faith. Or the True Faith, as she called it, as she knew now both were one and the same, the Old and the Valyrian being part of the great whole. Part of life, as Aemon had explained it, and something he had done his best to promote in Seadragon Point, a temple and godswood, both prominent features.
The sound of trumpets pulled her out of her musing as she saw Viserys arriving, followed closely by her mother, who took her seat beside him instead of Aemon.
She smiled despite herself. She was here to see Aemon joust. That alone made the day worth it.
The day before, she had spent time with Aemma. Arya found herself hoping, quietly, that everything would go well for both Aemma and Rhaenyra. Even if the child was not a boy. It should not matter. It never should have.
The crowd stilled as Viserys rose, the movement rippling outward like a wave. Thousands of voices quieted, leaving only the distant sounds of horses shifting and banners snapping in the wind.
"Fine people of Westeros, I welcome you to the second day of the jousting. Today you will see knights, lords, and the winners of yesterday's joust compete for the honor to crown their Queen of Love and Beauty, and to win the tournament, and the prize of five thousand gold dragons."
The response was immediate. The crowd erupted into cheers, voices rising together.
"Long live the King! Long live House Targaryen! Long live the dragonlords!"
Arya could not help but smile at it. Her father might not have liked such displays, but there was something to them. They brought people together. Lords and smallfolk alike, all sharing in the same moment.
In the North, they had their own ways. Feasts, melees, contests of strength and skill. But this was something else entirely. Bigger. Louder. Brighter.
Even she had to admit, there was something stirring in it. The colors, the clash of steel, the crack of lance against shield. It made her blood quicken.
Even if she still did not like the blushing ladies, or the cries when a knight fell, or the way she had been forced into a dress instead of leathers.
The sound of hooves drew her attention forward again as twenty riders came forth, moving in formation before the dais. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, polished steel and bright enamel catching the light.
She recognized several sigils. Hightower, tall and proud. Trueleaf. Lannister, which made her lips tighten slightly. Reyne, Caswell, Tarly, Sunderland, Frey.
And then Cole.
Her eyes lingered there a moment longer. Ser Criston Cole, in relatively plain armor beside Ser Jeffery. The histories painted him as the Kingmaker, the man who crowned Aegon II. A Kingsguard who had turned against Rhaenyra.
Yet history was often wrong. She knew that better than most.
Perhaps he was not what the histories claimed. Or perhaps he was, but not yet. If Aemon played this well, he might gain a valuable ally. Cole was known to be a great warrior, and once, at least, he had been loyal.
The herald stepped forward as the drums began to rumble, low and steady like distant thunder.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City."
Arya's gaze shifted as Daemon rode in. Black horse. Black armor. A presence that demanded attention whether one wished it or not. His armor was finely made, though not without its distinctions. The chest piece stood apart, Valyrian steel, old and deadly. The rest was black plate, edged in red and gold, crowned with a dragonhead crest.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen will now choose his first opponent. The first joust of the day!"
"Arya, Visenya, who do you think Daemon will choose?" Alicent asked.
Arya leaned slightly forward, studying the line of knights. She could almost feel the tension beneath the surface.
Visenya looked at the twenty knights. "I wouldn't be surprised if he chooses Ser Criston Cole. Ser Criston unhorsed my brother in the final joust a year ago at the Tourney of Maidenpool. Knowing Daemon, he might wish for vengeance to prove himself the superior warrior."
Arya nodded, and she could understand that reasoning. "Mm, I don't think he will. I think he will choose either one of your brothers, Alicent, or Ser Jeffery. Daemon doesn't like Aemon, or your father, very much."
They all gasped at her, but she just shrugged, then watched as Daemon rode up and down the row.
Then Daemon pointed his lance toward Ser Jeffery. "See," she muttered under her breath.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses, for his first challenge, Ser Jeffery Trueleaf."
The other knights rode away as Ser Jeffery and Daemon took their places, and she noticed the squire of Ser Jeffery, he wore the Oathmen armor. It made sense, she thought, that the lower-ranked men of Aemon would serve as squires as well as Oathmen.
Then she looked toward her sister, who was looking attentively at Ser Jeffery.
"Well, Visenya, let's hope your champion doesn't fall," she muttered with a smirk. "Ser Jeffery rode well yesterday. Perhaps he will show Daemon his mettle."
"Perhaps, sister."
At that moment, the first blow of the horn sounded, and both Daemon and Ser Jeffery charged. She noticed the crowd, both cheering for their champion but also their Prince of the City, they were divided.
She watched as the horses closed the distance. She followed them, as did the crowd, Daemon on his black destrier, and Ser Jeffery on his brown courser.
They crashed, both lances hitting either shield, and the wood splintered. While Ser Jeffery stayed ably on his horse, Daemon did not. He almost fell from his horse but regained his seat. She grinned. Good, show him, Ser Jeffery, show him Northern flavor.
Daemon roared for a second lance, and they rode again. This bout was even, both striking their shields, and the crowd roared with happiness.
Then the third bout came, and she saw it then, the lance of Daemon, it was too low. "No, the lance is too low," she muttered.
They crashed, both lances hitting either shield, and the wood splintered. While Ser Jeffery stayed ably on his horse, Daemon did not. He almost fell from his horse but regained his seat. She grinned. Good, show him, Ser Jeffery, show him Northern flavor.
Daemon roared for a second lance, and they rode again. This bout was even, both striking their shields, and the crowd roared with happiness.
Then the third bout came, and she saw it then. The lance of Daemon was too low. "No, the lance is too low," she muttered.
Then it happened. The lance of Daemon struck the neck of Ser Jeffery's horse. Lucky for the horse, it wore strong plated armor on its neck. Yet it still fell to the side, and it seemed Ser Jeffery was just in time to jump off the horse before it crushed his leg.
She sighed in relief as she saw the horse rise, yet Daemon opened his visor and looked smug. The crowd yelled against Daemon. "Coward," she muttered.
Viserys then rose, beckoning the crowd to quiet down. "Well, a misfortune struck on Ser Jeffery's horse; Ser Jeffery, sadly, he did lose his seat. Yet as he rode well today and yesterday, I decree he shall not be asked to ransom his equipment."
Ser Jeffery had taken off his helmet and had calmed down his horse. He walked to the dais and nodded. Still, his face was that of an irritated man. "You rode well, Ser," Visenya noted as Ser Jeffery left the field.
He gave her a nod. "It was an honor to wear your favor, Princess."
After that, Daemon himself rode forward, the same grin, toward the dais. She damn well hoped that the man would not ask for her favor. She would not give it, public image be damned.
Yet luckily, the man stopped in front of Alicent. The damn fool had shamed her, and now he had the audacity to ask for her favor, and Arya looked angrily at him. "I'm certain I can win the joust, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it."
Arya scowled at him as Alicent put on a fake smile, one she now knew how to see even after eleven years since she left the House of Black and White. She knew their teachings, if not all. She no longer knew how to take a face, because to wear one, one must be no one, and when she used them in Westeros, she was slowly becoming someone. She felt the decision she made was poison to the faces, because she was becoming Arya Stark again.
Alicent took the favor from her polls and bound it on the lance of her brother. The word brother was not something she used for Viserys or Daemon, for that matter.
After Daemon had ridden away, another twenty knights rode forward. She saw two sigils of the Hightower, although one of them had the golden hands pin imprinted upon the tower. She knew, as Visenya had told her, Alicent's middle brother, Martyn Hightower, had that as his personal sigil. By her word, he was the best fighter of the three brothers.
Other sigils she saw were Marbrand, Beesbury, Tarly, Dondarrion, Tarth, Darry, Hardyng, Belmore, even a knight bearing the sigil of House Arryn, more houses she did not recall, and two knights that had won the previous day of jousting.
Then her brother rode in his armor, the same armor he wore during his entrance into the throne room. The sunlight caught black, red, white, gold, and silver armor, a true piece of art. Something, in Aemon's words, he had worked on for fifty days, if not more. It was a piece that both showed the majesty of House Targaryen, yet also the knowledge Aemon had acquired. It sent a message that change was in the air.
"Prince Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Seadragon Point, squire to Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard, the White Dragon, and husband to Princess Laena Velaryon," the herald announced.
Aemon waved to the crowd, and she must admit, seeing him like this was odd. In her mind, even now, she still had the image of a withdrawn brother who did not fit where he was. Yet now, seeing it, he did fit into this world. It was just before the world did not let him, until they needed him, and later would discard him. Aemon could think in ways others could not, and he was punished for it. She smiled and waved toward him, as did the others.
Aemon rode up and down the combatants. He stopped in front of the Arryn knight. "Oh, curious, he chooses my cousin," Rhaenyra noted.
Arya raised her brow. "Who is that, Rhaenyra?"
Yet before Rhaenyra could answer, the herald spoke. "Prince Aemon Targaryen chooses Ser Arnold Arryn, heir to the Eyrie, nephew to Queen Aemma."
Ser Arnold Arryn, she knew that name from somewhere, but could not recall it. Arya looked toward Rhaenyra for clarity. "He is the son of my late uncle Uthor. He was my mother's second-oldest brother."
"You have not mentioned him before?" Visenya asked.
"True, but I do not know many of my Arryn kin, save for Jeyne, who is about four years older than I am. We have written from time to time. Yet Arnold, or any of my cousins born to my mother's sisters, I do not know personally," Rhaenyra replied, frowning. "I do know of a Joffrey Hardyng, as he is know to be a fine knight. I think Rhea Royce is my mother's cousin, by marriage of her father to my grandfather's sister, I think," Rhaenyra added thoughtfully, but Arya sensed doubt in her voice.
"Well, perhaps you will get to know them better. With Lady departing as lady-in-waiting, perhaps you could invite one of your cousins to you as ladies?" Visenya suggested.
Arya nodded, not that she really cared. She had her friends in the North, with similar interests, girls also learning to be warriors. Lucky, after asking more than once, was able to convince her mother to take them as wards. Ladies Alinda Locke, a niece of her uncle's wife, and Betha Cerwyn, daughter of the current Lord Cerwyn, were both coming south. Then, if she could become a squire, she could tell them all about it, she thought with a smirk.
The trumpet announced both riders to be ready. On the left side of the tourney ground she saw Laenor holding a lance, and on the right stood Bennard, who had a bit more difficulty. Yet he did better than she had seen him do when she saw them train. Then again, Bennard was but nine.
Aemon spurred on his horse and rode toward his challenger. Aemon's black horse Raven, galloped eagerly; they seemed to truly move as one. Then Aemon crashed against Ser Arnold's shield, the lance splintering, almost unseating Ser Arnold, who only managed to catch himself as a glancing blow struck Aemon's shoulder.
Aemon rode and received a lance from the running Bennard, who quickly returned and picked up another lance. Then they rode again. This time, both riders connected, yet one remained in his seat while the other flew from his horse.
Ser Arnold fell from his horse onto the dirt with a hard thud, yet the fall did not seem bad from her point of view. Aemon dismounted from his horse and helped raise Ser Arnold to his feet. The man nodded toward Aemon, walked off the field, his squires following him. "It seems the dragon has roasted the falcon today," she muttered, which caught some laughs from the rest.
Aemon mounted his horse and rode toward the dais. "My dear lady wife, may I have the honor of wearing your favor? I'm sure it will allow me to crown you Queen of Love and Beauty."
The crowd roared with cheers and applause at her brother's words. Laena rose with a smile, even if Arya noticed the blush on her face, a blush that made Laena look even prettier.
Laena bound her favor around Aemon's lance. "I wish you well, Lord Husband," Laena added as she gave Aemon an air kiss, yet the look she gave Aemon was all lust.
Arya gave an inward shiver. Sure, she had had sex, but that did not mean she needed the mental image of it in her head. Visenya thinking of Aemon that way was enough. Looking at her sister, or all four of the ladies that sat beside her, all looked wishfully at the scene. Ugh, ladies and their sweet dreams.
"I shall honor you, Lady-Wife," Aemon noted as he rode away.
Rhaenyra Targaryen (107 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing – Tourney Grounds
Rhaenyra sat contentedly as the midday meal had been brought in. Aemon and Daemon had both done well, and only Aemon needed one more win to pass into the last thirty-two knights in tomorrow's joust. Yet now it was the great Lord Boremund Baratheon who stepped forward toward the dais.
"Princess Rhaenys Velaryon Targaryen, I would humbly ask for the favor of the Queen Who Never Was, and the mother of Princess Laena Targaryen Velaryon, wife to the valorous Prince Aemon."
Rhaenyra stilled her eyes at those words, a slight taken against her father. Even now, it seemed House Baratheon was displeased with the result of the Great Council. Yet his words regarding Aemon carried a different tone.
Rhaenys smiled at her cousin and placed her favor upon his lance. "Good fortune to you, cousin."
"I would gladly take it if I thought I needed it," the Lord of Storm's End said as he rode to his starting point.
On the other side was Ser Criston Cole, the champion of the previous tourney and a well-upcoming knight by all accounts.
"Ser Steffon," she said as the knight came closer.
"Princess."
"What do you know of Ser Criston Cole?" she asked.
"Well, he is a great jouster, as we know from the Tourney of Maidenpool. As for his house, they are a stewardly house to House Dondarrion. His father is their current steward."
She thanked him, and then the trumpet sounded for the joust to begin. Both Ser Criston and Lord Boremund charged, plain knight of black and purple-red against yellow, gold, and black. They crashed together, both riders striking the other's shield, yet Ser Criston got the better of the two, holding on more firmly to his saddle.
The second bout was even more in Ser Criston's favor, as she noticed the effort it took for Lord Boremund to hold his shield up after the charge.
In the third bout, Lord Boremund's shield hung too low. Ser Criston struck the Lord of Storm's End upon his shoulder, launching him from his saddle. Ser Criston quickly dismounted to help his liege lord up. Despite having lost, she saw that after the lord lifted his visor, he had a grin upon his face. He whispered something to Ser Criston, who smiled.
Then Ser Criston mounted his horse and rode toward the dais, one of the few knights who still wore a favor, and stopped in front of her. Up close, she noticed he was quite handsome, though he paled compared to Aemon. Yet it mattered not. She liked him, as he had crowned her mother during the Tourney of Maidenpool.
"Princess Rhaenyra, may I have the honor of wearing your favor?"
She smiled at him and rose. "Normally, I would grant it to my sworn shield," she said as she smiled at Ser Steffon, who looked at her gratefully. "Yet he does not ride, so for your valor so far, and for crowning my mother as Queen of Love and Beauty in your previous victory, I grant you your wish."
She looked back at her father, who smiled, and the crowd cheered at the sight.
After she bound her favor to his lance, Ser Criston spoke gratefully. "I thank you, Princess, and may it bring me luck."
He gave her a bright smile before riding away.
Then the herald stepped forward once more. "Prince Aemon Targaryen will now ride against Lord Ormund Hightower, heir to Oldtown."
Alicent, beside her, looked conflicted, and Rhaenyra took her hand. "Both will be fine. Both Ormund and Aemon are good riders."
The trumpets sounded.
The ground seemed to still.
Aemon rode forward in armor of white, gold, black, and red. Across from him, Ormund Hightower sat tall in polished steel and green, with intricate images of the Hightower, and, if she had seen it right, the symbols of the Seven upon his chest plate. They lowered their lances.
The first charge came like thunder.
Wood struck wood with a crack that echoed across the grounds. Both lances shattered, splintering into the air, yet both men held firm. A murmur ran through the crowd.
The second pass came faster.
Again, both struck true. Again, neither fell.
By the third, the murmurs had grown into cheers.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her hand tightening slightly around Alicent's. "They are well matched," she whispered.
"They are," Alicent replied softly, though her eyes never left the field.
Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Each pass broke another lance. Each time, both men held. At times, either almost slipped from the saddle. The force of the impacts rang through the stands, a rhythm of thunder and splintering ash.
By the seventh, even the lords were rising from their seats, clapping.
By the eighth, the crowd was roaring.
Aemon rode as if he were one with his horse, each strike precise, each movement controlled. Ormund met him with equal determination, his strength undeniable, his form unwavering despite the mounting blows.
The ninth pass shattered both lances so completely that fragments rained across the lists like hail.
The tenth drew gasps, as both men wavered in their saddles for a heartbeat, yet neither fell.
"Seven hells," Arya muttered. "How do they still sit their horses?"
Rhaenyra smirked as she noticed it with her younger aunt. She was quite a mouthful, not one to hold her words back most of the time.
The eleventh came with a force that seemed almost impossible. Both lances struck the riders in their chests. Both Aemon and Ormund almost fell from their horses, yet both remained seated.
Rhaenyra could feel her heart pounding now. Even her father and the other members of the council leaned forward, their eyes fixed upon the field.
"Twelve," she whispered, and she felt Alicent's hand tighten around hers.
The twelfth pass began.
Silence fell, as if the entire tourney ground held its breath.
They charged.
At the moment of impact, Aemon's lance struck true upon Ormund's shield, driving through with perfect force and angle. Ormund's lance struck as well, but his balance faltered.
For a heartbeat, he held. Then he fell.
Lord Ormund Hightower was thrown from his saddle, crashing into the dirt as his horse rode past without him.
The crowd's silence was shattered into a roar of cheers and applause. Aemon rode on for several paces before slowing, lowering the broken haft of his lance. He turned his mount with calm control, as if the feat had been nothing at all.
Twelve lances broken. No other joust had come close. It reminded her of her grandfather's joust against Ser Ryam Redwyne, the final joust he ever rode. She thought sadly. Yet Rhaenyra rose to her feet with the rest, the sound of the crowd swelling around her. Even she could not deny it.
This was the finest joust of the tourney.
Aemon dismounted and moved to Ormund at once, offering him a hand. The Hightower heir took it, rising with a grunt, and though defeated, he gave a nod of respect.
Aemon inclined his head in return.
Her father then bid the crowd to quiet down and asked for Aemon and Ormund to stay. "My lords, my ladies, people of Westeros. Today ends the second day of the jousting. What an end it was. Give both these men another cheer for their efforts."
The crowd did, chanting both their names, and both Aemon and Ser Ormund waved to the crowd. But she saw their faces, both exhausted. They had been after pummeling into each other with twelve wooden shafts.
"On the morrow, the last thirty-two riders will ride and decide who will be the best jouster of the tournament. I bid you all a good day, and enjoy the rest of the festivities." Her father proclaimed to the cheering crowd.
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